


i'm not in the blue

by fiveandnocents



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-2018 NHL Season, Angst, M/M, Meddling Hockey Boys, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Sex, Victory Gangbang AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-01-08 10:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12252264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveandnocents/pseuds/fiveandnocents
Summary: “So, let me get this straight,” Leon says, eyebrows stuck as high as they can go. “You’re trying to seduce Dylan Strome by letting all of his other teammates fuck you?”“It's not - I’m -Leon.”It's not the most eloquent moment of his life, but he also has no actual denial because yes, that is exactly what Connor is doing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I said I had a bunch of random half done works in this 'verse and that's true. What's also true is that this was not one of them and it was only made last week in a writing frenzy during my breaks at work. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ what can you do? Also, is it really gangbang fic if it is only referenced and the only real sex is between two marshmallow boys with feelings? The french language says no, but I say yes.
> 
> It's not necessary to read the first one in this 'verse! They're all unrelated (so far) and the only things that might be lost are the lightly sketched out "rules".
> 
> Title from You Drive Me Crazy by Britney Spears for no reason at all

It had to be Arizona.

Connor’s palms sweat from where he’s jammed them in his hoodie and his face feels like it’s burning. He just - when he said he’d participate this year, he never really considered what'd it'd be like if he was picked for a team that his friends were on. Mitch - well Connor can't honestly say he ever thought they'd lose to the Leafs in the first place, so Mitch had never crossed his mind. 

There's really no excuse for why he hadn't thought of Dylan. 

Nursey glances up at him from his phone when Connor stumbles over his own feet. He laughs at him and Connor can feel his face getting even redder. He must look like an idiot, so of course, that’s when they finally reach the visitor’s locker room. 

Connor pauses, staring at the flaking paint on the door - which is sad, maybe he should give up some of his frankly obnoxious salary so that they can afford upkeep on this place - and tries to cool his face into submission. Nursey presses a broad palm against his back and Connor spares a brief moment to think about how it’s nice to have such supportive teammates before his trust is betrayed and he’s unceremoniously shoved through the doors.

This is why he wanted Leon to come instead. 

His abrupt entrance draws a few distracted stares, but most guys are still smiling and joking with each other, high off the win.

Dylan notices him though. 

He’s standing by his stall where he was clearly just talking to Crouser if the amused look on Crouser’s face is anything to go by. Dylan’s shirtless, which is how Connor usually sees him whenever they Facetime, but he looks even bigger in person. He still has his summer bulk (and summer tan, the gorgeous bastard) and honestly, Connor is tall, but he always forgets how Dylan is even taller. 

He feels warm everywhere now, a little bit of embarrassment and way more arousal than is appropriate. Then again, it is a victory orgy, so maybe it’s a very appropriate amount of arousal.

Fuck, it had to be Arizona.

Dylan’s still staring at him, jaw dropped and stupid looking, so Connor waves at him, because he is also stupid looking. It seems to snap Dylan out of whatever trance he was in and Connor swallows nervously as Dylan walks over to crowd into Connor’s space.

“What’re you doing here?” Dylan hisses. He wraps his hand around Connor’s wrist like he’s going to physically drag him out of the room.

“Pretty obvious, Stromer,” Connor says, trying for sass and failing miserably when his voice cracks. 

Dylan’s brow furrows worriedly and - it just _had_ to be Arizona. _Fuck_. 

“I thought you didn’t do this.”

Connor bites the inside of his cheek and averts his eyes to where Nursey is texting on his phone again. “We thought it would be good for the team if I -”

“The _team_?” Dylan interrupts and his grip on Connor’s wrist is edging into painful. “You’re doing this because the suits told you it'd be a morale boost?”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“That's it, I’m out.” Dylan drops Connor’s wrist and rushes back to his stall to shove his clothes on as fast as humanly possible. 

The sharp burst of hurt that blooms in Connor’s chest isn’t unexpected, except for how it really is. He wants to say something snarky like, “Sorry I’m not the one you wanted to have show up,” but the words hit a little too close to home and he’s adult enough to know that saying them won’t actually make him feel better.

\---

So, Connor gets fucked. A lot. And afterwards, Nursey brings him a whole bowl of pasta to eat on the couch while he watches the newest, trashiest episode of Dance Moms and subtly ices his ass. It’s a good night, but he still kind of wants to cry about it a little bit.

 _I’m good looking right?_ He texts to Mitch, pressing send before he can read it over and chicken out. 

_Is this about losing?_ Mitch texts back immediately and if Connor had any doubts about if Mitch knew what he was talking about, the next text that pops up, just the peach and eggplant emojis, put those doubts to rest. 

Connor blushes.

 _How’d you know about that?_ If someone said anything about what happened in that locker room, they’re in so much trouble not just with him, but with his team as well. 

Mitch sends another emoji, a raccoon this time, and Connor doesn’t know whether he should be more annoyed or relieved. He mostly wants to interrogate Mitch about what Dylan told him, but then he remembers that Dylan just _left_ , so it’s not like it could be anything good. He probably just complained about how he didn’t get his dick sucked by someone actually appealing. Like Leon.

 _Ur the cutest Davo_ , Mitch sends, followed by three kissy faces. If it was sent from anyone else, the emojis would be mocking him, but Mitch would actually smother him in kisses and hugs if he were with Connor, so they just make him smile. _Stromer loves you he didn’t leave cuz he thinks ur ugly ;p_

He loves Mitch all the time, but even more than usual during times where he says everything Connor didn’t know he wanted to hear. 

\---

_can we talk_

No question mark. Dylan isn’t exactly a grammar savant, but he at least tries to attempt punctuation. 

Not a question then.

 _Give me a minute_ , he texts back, tacking on a, _please_ , after a moment’s thought and goes to shower. 

He’s glad it’s an off day. It’s not like the soreness is something he can’t handle, but... it’d been his first time doing that, being a volunteer.

He’d always gracefully bowed out of any celebration that didn’t include going to a bar, win or loss, because he’s already in the spotlight enough and he really wasn’t too keen on his sexual preferences getting around the league. The rest of the team has always told him that it didn’t matter, that no one would really remember unless Connor asked for something really out of the box or unique (like Kesler, they said with enormous grins, and Connor was too afraid to ask), but something had always held him back anyway. 

After yesterday, Connor is beginning to realize that something had always been Dylan.

His reaction yesterday notwithstanding, Dylan had always seemed so quietly supportive of Connor’s choices and lazily pleased whenever Connor had called him right after a win to talk.

So, he didn’t want to disappoint Dylan, which he clearly has, unless he’s upset for the reasons he was actually worried about last night, but Mitch confirmed that it wasn’t because Dylan thought Connor was repulsive, and Mitchy doesn’t lie unless it’s for a joke and he loves Connor enough to not joke about his feelings. 

He flicks water out of his eyes and slides into some sweats and an old Otters tee that rests just a little too big on him.

Surprisingly, Dylan’s been patient with him and hasn’t sent him any texts telling him to get his ass in gear and Connor doesn’t know whether that’s a good or bad sign.

 _Okay, what’s up?_ Connor texts, settling onto his bed. 

His phone immediately lights up with a Facetime notification and Connor’s breathing picks up. They always Facetime, there’s no reason to think that it’s anything out of the ordinary, but he can’t help but wish that Dyan couldn’t see his face during this conversation. It’s not like he doesn’t know what Dylan wants to talk about. 

Connor schools his face into something that he hopes resembles calm confidence and presses answer. 

Dylan looks more tired than usual when his face fills the screen, but Connor still feels himself heating up under his stare. 

“Hey,” Connor says, smiling softly when Dylan returns the sentiment. Dylan doesn’t follow up with anything and Connor wants to pretend he doesn’t know why Dylan called, but Dylan would see it as an avoidance tactic from a mile away. “So, what’d you want to talk about?”

“You know you can legally sue the Oilers, right?” Dylan says, which is absolutely not what Connor thought he was going to say.

“Stromer, what-”

“I looked it up,” Dylan interrupts, and this conversation feels eerily reminiscent of their conversation in the locker room. He’s not confident in his ability to get a word in before Dylan is done saying his part. “They can’t make you volunteer, man, it’s not even a league mandated rule. It’s just a player tradition.”

“Str-”

“And what kind of bullshit did they tell you anyway? Hurting team unity. Everyone knows Fisher never did it with the Preds ‘cause his wife would’ve cut off his balls and they went to the _Cup Finals_. I swear to god if anyone forced you -”

“Dylan, _stop_ ,” Connor blurts out, face flaming. A little part of him is pleased, a warm and fluttery feeling in his stomach over how Dylan is worried about him, but the rest of him is mortified about how much he feels like a damsel in distress. “It’s not… I decided at the beginning of the season to participate.” Jesus, his hands are sweaty. “I didn’t want to, like, miss out on a big part of being in the NHL. Better now when I’m horny all the time anyway than when I’m old.”

Dylan’s quiet for a long time (long enough that Connor’s dumb brain sits up and realizes that he’s shirtless again) until he finally says, “Okay.”

He doesn’t sound like it’s okay. He sounds off, especially compared to how he was talking a mile a minute before.

The sick feeling starts up in Connor’s stomach again, drowning out the butterflies from before.

“Is that… Is that all you wanted to talk about?” He hopes it is. He hasn’t been this uncomfortable around Dylan in a long time.

Dylan must catch on to the absolute waves of awkwardness radiating off of Connor because he visibly softens and runs a hand through his messy hair.

“Yeah, sorry, I just really wasn’t expecting to see you there.”

Connor feels his heart pound in his ears, but he can still somehow hear himself say, “Sorry I made it so you couldn’t get some.” His laugh sounds horribly fake and he feels all of sixteen again, tripping over himself to convince a hot brown haired boy that he was cool. 

“Nah,” Dylan says and Connor envies how relaxed he looks. “I never let anyone touch me anyway. Might change next year when I’ll be up for the rotation, but I just like watching.”

“Oh, you could’ve stayed then,” Connor says before remembering that Dylan thought he was being blackmailed into it and that might be hot for some guys in the league, but clearly not Dylan. Before he can take it back though, Dylan’s face scrunches up in a grimace and Connor feels himself stop breathing. 

“Come on, Davo, you have to know that you’re the last person I’d want to see with other people.”

It would’ve been kinder to punch him in the face, honestly. It’s the harshest rejection he could’ve ever imagined, but he’s always known Dylan wasn’t one to mince words so he maybe he was just kidding himself. 

“Right,” he chokes out. He can feel the burn in the corner of his eyes and wants to die. “Well, that’s cleared up. Talk to you later, Stromer.”

Dylan looks startled by the abrupt goodbye, but Connor ends the call before he can say anything.

His phone starts vibrating immediately and Connor tosses it to the foot of his bed and pulls his knees up to bury his face in them. He won’t cry about it; he just… needs a moment to blink the dust out of his eyes. 

When he finally feels more solid inside, he looks at his phone. 

One missed call. One new message.

 _we still good?_ From Dylan Strome, unread, received fifteen minutes ago. 

Connor winces when he reads the timestamp, knows that it’s telling enough as it is, but types out with shaky fingers, _Yeah we’re good._

\---

Connor is not good. 

His sadness turns to anger alarmingly quickly. 

What’s Dylan’s problem anyway? It’s not like Connor is too unfortunate looking. He’s been propositioned before and only about half of them knew he was a hockey player. 

Probably.

And Dylan’s not exactly Tyler Seguin levels of sexy either. He's got a weirdly small face and his hair is appalling and any and all attempts at facial hair are better left unmentioned. 

So, yeah, he’s a little offended because Dylan could do worse. He _has_ done worse and Connor knows because it’s not like Erie was that long ago. 

It’s misplaced pride maybe that makes Connor volunteer the next time they lose to the Coyotes (which is two weeks later because apparently the Oilers really are cursed or Arizona has rebuilt a lot since their embarrassing season last year).

Dylan takes one look at him, swears, and leaves the room.

Connor blows Crouser twice in retaliation, because if anyone is gonna tell Dylan what a great lay Connor is, it's Crouser. 

(It's also spite. Apparently he’s adult enough to hold his tongue, but he's still not always adult enough to make the right decision every time.)

\---

Connor has to step up his game. Considering his game is currently nonexistent, he thinks it's a reasonable goal. 

He’s not trying to be petty, but maybe he’s watched too much MTV lately because he starts posting increasingly suggestive snaps on the snap story of his private snap account and doesn’t send anything directly to Dylan. 

It starts small, just a picture of some pineapple juice (which is actually not in his diet plan, but that Nursey keeps around for when he wants to make martinis). He gets progressively bolder, until he finally snaps, _rough loss last night_ with a picture of his bruised knees that came from a lame competition between him and Nuge about who could knee-slide farther on the ice after practice and not from any dick sucking activities. 

He’s shameless, which is a novel feeling because embarrassment sticks to him like glue.

It’s during one of the rare moments where he’s not actively trying to rile Dylan up (or checking how many times he’s viewed Connor’s snap story - only four times last time he checked, Dylan’s showing restraint today) and is taking a PR approved instagram photo of his and Leon’s healthy snack pile with the opening credits of the Fellowship of the Ring in the background that Leon finally calls him out on his bizarre behavior for the past couple weeks. 

“So, what’s with the porn snaps?”

“They’re not - I’m not even naked in them!” Connor protests. 

Leon raises his eyebrows and even that is handsome; Connor is surrounded by good looking pricks. “I’m just saying, if someone sent those to me I’d have to be an idiot not to know that they were open for business.” He pauses to eat a dried mango in a blatant and irritating excuse to add a dramatic pause. “And you’re really not. Something you wanna tell me about the ‘Yotes?”

Maybe it’s the tone of his voice or the way he says it like he already knows exactly what’s up with the porn snaps, but either way, Connor finds himself telling Leon everything over the sounds of a hobbit birthday party.

“So, let me get this straight,” Leon says, eyebrows stuck as high as they can go. “You’re trying to seduce Dylan Strome by letting all of his other teammates fuck you?”

Connor chokes on the sip of La Croix he just took - millennials unite - and slams the can on the table to distract from the truly horrible noise he just made. 

“It's not - I’m - _Leon_.” 

It's not the most eloquent moment of his life, but he also has no actual denial because yes, that is exactly what Connor is doing. And yes, it probably is as stupid as it sounds, but he's getting orgasms and also he's the guy that tried to play off the fact that a broken collarbone was a big fucking deal, so stubborn is what he's going to stick with. 

“Really dumb, Daver. The idea and you.”

Leon hands him the nutritionist approved kale chips though, so at least they’re still friends. 

\---

Connor never tries to lose any game because that’s stupid and he gets paid equally stupid amounts of money to _win_ games, but he is less disappointed than he should be when they lose the final game of the season series against Arizona.

He strips off quickly and tries to project responsible captain vibes when he tells the team to head home and rest up while he takes care of it, but he probably fails because the guys just whistle obnoxiously at him and Nursey throws a sock at his head and bitches at him for making him stay back to go with him since he drove them in before the game. 

When he gets to the visitor’s locker room, he almost crashes right into Dylan.

He still reeks from the game, sweaty and unshowered, like he’d tried to get out of there as soon as possible. The moment he sees Connor, his face seems to fall and scrunch up at the same time. He doesn’t looks surprised, but Connor can’t quite pin down the myriad of emotions flickering across Dylan’s face.

Nursey coughs in the fakest way possible and it jolts Connor out of his Strome-induced daze.

“Sorry,” he says to an all too amused Nursey and when he turns back to say something to Dylan, he’s already halfway down the hallway. 

It’s fine, he tells himself as his stomach sinks. It’s not like he’s only doing this for Dylan anyway. But later, as Domi fingers him open and smiles in a way that makes Connor’s knees go weak, he thinks that he’d still like everything better if Dylan was the one doing it.

\---

Connor does other things than think about Dylan Strome, but apparently not enough to please Leon, because he forces Connor to take a mini road trip to a strip mall as far away from Edmonton as they can reasonably get to in a day. 

They’re in the middle of devouring some Subway sandwiches when Connor’s phone starts vibrating in his pocket.

Almost no one calls him anymore, unless they plan it between practices and games, so he’s just curious enough to fish it out of his pocket to see _Mitch Marner_ flashing across his screen.

“Hey Marns?” he asks, because Mitch is about three days too early for their next Facetime date, which Mitch has to know because he’s the one that sent Connor the google invite titled ‘Super Fun Bro Timezzz’.

“You’re being a real asshole, Davo,” Mitch says without preamble. “There’s no way your team has so few guys that you’re up every time that you lose to Arizona. Did you try to lose the season series by the way? Because, wow, that was fucking pathetic. You think Stromer wants to keep seeing you show up? I don’t think he’s ever wanted to win _less_.”

Connor can barely hear anything other than the blood rushing in his ears, but Mitch’s words keep piercing through the noise like the worst kind of joke. He thinks that if he weren’t in public he’d be tearing up, because Mitch has always been opinionated and loyal, but he’s never been _vicious_. 

Leon keeps giving him concerned looks from across the table and Connor can’t even give him an I’m-fine-I-swear ankle tap because he is definitely _not_ fine.

“What’re you thinking in that big head of yours?” Mitch asks, softer, more like the Mitch that is his best friend as much as Dylan’s.

“Sorry,” he whispers, “I don’t know what I’m… I know it makes him mad to see me…”

Mitch scoffs. “Understatement of the year, Davo.”

He feels like his throat is closing up. “I’ll stop. I… sorry.” Apparently being in public doesn’t have a huge effect on curbing his emotions, because he feels himself blinking back tears.

“Good,” Mitch sighs. “Your friendship is more important than your ridiculous need to get some sweet dick.”

Connor feels his face burn. He knew he was being obvious, but being called out on… on how desperate he looked makes shame well up inside him. 

He hangs up before he can even think about how rude that is and rubs at his eyes with his palms.

Leon, bless him, takes one look at him and just says, “You gonna finish that?”

“No,” Connor croaks out, pushing the rest of his sandwich into Leon’s grabby hands. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

\---

Connor gets that Dylan’s mad at him. 

Mitch’s call was a pretty clear indication of it, but when Dylan doesn’t respond to any of Connor’s text messages, then he knows Dylan’s angrier than Connor thought he could ever be. 

Connor went into this whole thing wanting Dylan to notice him in a way that he hadn’t thought of before. Mostly because he was bitter and his ego was a little bruised, but also because he held onto a little glimmer of hope that Dylan would change his mind. That maybe he just needed to know the option was on the table instead of some vague impossibility. Losing Dylan’s friendship was never something he’d even considered and it’s definitely not something he’s going to allow. 

Dylan still won’t answer his phone though, so Connor has to get creative.

For the ridiculous number of times they’re both in Southern California for games, they’re never both in California at the same time with enough time for Connor to ambush Dylan after or before a game and with their season series put to rest, Connor’s chances of seeing Dylan before the offseason are depressingly low. 

Then, on another completely routine, _freezing_ day in March, the Coyotes play a game against the Flames with plans to stay for an extra day. Connor doesn’t even have to think about it; he asks to borrow Nursey’s car and drives three hours straight to Calgary.

He gets there after the game ends and he’s not sure if Dylan stuck around after his win, but Connor doesn’t know which hotel the team is bunked at anyway, so he takes a seat outside the visitor’s locker room after taking several awkward photos as bribery. He’s sweating under his sweatshirt, the awkward teen anxiety kind of sweat that hasn’t actually gone away even though he’s not a teen anymore. He’s just glad he’s not in a game day suit.

Connor must’ve been later than he thought, because he’s not even there twenty minutes when people start to trickle out of the doors. Chychrun gives him a weird look when he spots him. Connor opens his mouth to ask if Dylan’s still in there, but Chychrun gets this panicked look on his face and runs away (which Connor thinks is just unnecessarily rude considering he came in Connor’s ass less than a month ago).

Before he can think too many baffled and offended thoughts towards Chychrun, Crouser walks out, freshly showered and grinning in a smug I-just-got-laid way and he lights up when he sees Connor. 

“McJesus!” he greets, too loud, and walks over to give Connor a hand up. “Glad you’re here, man. You gotta fix Stromer. He’s been a fucking pain to be around lately.”

Connor feels guilt creep up like a vine; he never meant to affect Dylan’s hockey.

“Hey, don’t make that face,” Crouser pouts, poking the downturned corners of Connor’s mouth. “He’s fine, we still love him, but I just can’t stand seeing another one of his fucking tragic faces whenever someone says your name.”

Somehow, without Connor noticing, Crouser has led Connor out of the Saddledome with a sneaky arm around his shoulders.

“Um, wait,” he says, head swiveling around to look back at the arena. “Is he still in there?”

Crouser laughs. “Nah, he’s at the hotel pouting. Let’s split an uber there.”

“I can driv-”

“Oh, man, let me just say, you’re an A+ lay-”

“No, don’t get an uber I dro-”

“Dude, it’s rude to interrupt people in the middle of a rhyme.”

Which is how Connor finds himself in Calgary on a Wednesday night sharing a cab with a recently fucked Lawson Crouse while he listens to him talk about Sean Monahan’s dick. 

It isn’t exactly what he expected when he got into the NHL.

Crouser talks his ear off in the elevator and down the hallway to what Connor can only assume is Dylan’s room because Crouser hasn’t taken a breath to let him get a word in edgewise. Crouser slaps his palms repeatedly against a door and runs away before Connor knows it and he can’t even yell at him about it because Dylan is immediately opening the door, saying, “Jesus, did you forget your fucking key aga-”

He freezes when he sees Connor standing awkwardly in the doorway, but his face quickly shifts from confused to resigned, which is a look Connor never thought he’d see directed at him. 

Dylan sighs and waves Connor through the door, turning his back on Connor without checking to make sure he’s following. It’s the obvious rejection that makes Connor want to drive back to Edmonton right now, no matter how much he misses Dylan (and no matter how good he looks in just a pair of black boxer briefs that cling to his thighs and ass in really distracting ways).

Connor shuts the door lightly behind him and walks over to where Dylan’s sat on the edge of one of the beds. He shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie so he can’t see them shake. 

“What’re you doing here?” Dylan asks and Connor is getting real sick of that sigh. 

“I wanted to congratulate you guys on the win,” he lies, because he’s not ready to tell Dylan that he’s missed him so much that it’s been a physical ache. 

He’s not expecting the way Dylan’s head shoots up to meet Connor’s eyes with a look that can only be described as dismay. “Fuck’s sake, Connor. We weren’t even playing you and you had to show up for the win?”

“I - what? I came to talk to you since you won’t return my texts, asshole.” The anger comes quickly, surprising Connor because he honestly didn’t think he was mad anymore.

Dylan looks properly chagrined at that, but he still sasses back, “Maybe I needed space, okay? My team talks about you all the time anyway it’s not like I can escape.”

“Look,” Connor says, putting as much captain-confidence in his voice as he can in the hopes that Dylan won’t notice how it wavers. “I heard you the first time. I’m the last person you’d want to sleep with, and that’s fine because bros, right? But you can be a little nicer about it, you know? I’m not… I’m not _that_ gross.”

Dylan stares unblinking at him for a solid twenty seconds, which is all kinds of unnerving, until he jumps up and says, “What the fuck. _What_ the _fuck_?” He suddenly looks furious and Connor can only gape at him as he starts pacing, pausing to shoot Connor incredulous looks. 

“Clearly - no, _obviously_ , you _didn’t_ hear me the first time, because that’s not what I’m saying and that’s not what I’ll ever say.”

Then Dylan kisses him. 

It's a lot more aggressive than Connor fantasized their first kiss would be like and he's fantasized a lot of different scenarios. Dylan keeps pulling back to yell at him and then draws Connor back in for another bruising kiss like he physically can't stay away. 

“You're so fucking - stupid, I can't believe - I was _so pissed_ \- I thought you were - shoving it in my face - about how _you_ weren't into _me_ -”

“Wait, Dyls,” Connor manages to gasp out. “Five minute break to talk then we can go back to kissing.”

Dylan doesn't look happy about it, but he lets go. 

“You just _left_ how was I supposed to know?”

“I told you! I said I didn't want to see you with anyone else.”

“Oh,” Connor says, feeling things start to click into place. “I thought that was just because you wanted to see someone else there. Since you said you just watch and… still wouldn’t stay.”

“Fuck,” Dylan sighs into his hands. “I thought you knew I was admitting to my obvious gay crush on you and you were just freaking out. God, when you hung up on me I thought I ruined everything.” He slides his hands down to support his jaw and the pained look of relief on Dylan’s face makes Connor feel unbearably guilty. “And then I thought you were being a huge fucking dick by volunteering and showing me how off limits you were.”

“So, you uh… you don’t want to fuck anyone else on my team, right?” The look Dylan gives him is scalding in the bad way, so Connor speaks up before Dylan starts yelling at him again. “Okay, okay, but like, you’re into me then?”

Dylan rolls his eyes and his fingers twitch in that way they do when he gets impatient. “Yeah, Davo, I like you. How Marns actually kept it a secret from you is a goddamn miracle.”

Connor remembers Mitch texting him, _Stromer loves you_ , and loyally vows to never rat Mitch out for being the worst secret keeper of all time. 

“God, do you know how shitty it was to know that practically my entire team fucked you and I hadn’t?” Dylan’s working himself up again, Connor can see it in the way his breathing quickens and fills his chest. 

“You could’ve too you know,” some crazy (or hurt, he’s not too sure) part of Connor prompts him to say.

“Yeah, no,” Dylan says, which is sending Connor all kinds of mixed messages. “My first time with you wasn’t going to be on the floor of my locker room while all of my teammates watch. You deserve something special.”

Connor blushes and can’t help how his mouth wants to slide into a shy smile. “Wanted to make it romantic, eh?”

Blushes don’t really show up on Dylan’s skin, but Connor would bet that he’d be bright red based on the way he avoids Connor’s eyes. 

“So what if I did? Can we just go back to kissing already?” Dylan doesn’t give him much of a chance to answer anyway; he just pulls Connor in by his belt loops to rest between the bracket of Dylan’s thighs.

All they do is make out, even when Connor slips a few fingers into Dylan’s waistband in invitation. Dylan just slides his hand down Connor’s arm to link their fingers together. 

“I’ll make it special, remember?”

And Connor doesn't actually want to argue with that so he doesn't. 

\---

They don't get to see each other for the rest of the regular season and a few weeks of the post season too. They're both free by the middle of May, which is a familiar disappointment for Connor and a fresh one for Dylan, so they take another few weeks to get over it before finally, _finally_ meeting up in Toronto. 

Connor expects to cuddle on the couch while watching a movie, maybe even kiss a bit, because they'd kept their long distance interactions pretty PG with dumb memes and mutual complaining about the other teams in the Pacific Division. 

It doesn't really go that way. 

“You wanted me to watch, is that it? You like performing, Davo?” Dylan asks, low and gravelly, pressing the words into Connor’s skin with his lips. “Never thought you needed the positive reinforcement. Not very self-motivated of you.” He scrapes his teeth around the edge of Connor’s nipple, avoiding the stiff peak and driving him insane. 

“I didn’t, uh…” Connor’s mind goes blank except for the buzz of arousal that’s spreading everywhere, making his fingers tingle. “Sorry,” he says nonsensically, doesn’t even know if that was the right answer and not really caring as long as Dylan keeps up with the long broad licks that he _finally_ drags across the entirety of Connor’s nipple. 

Sparks light up his spine as Dylan licks and he doesn’t know what his hands are doing, curling wherever they can get traction. Dylan’s hair, the sheets beside his head, the entire broad span of Dylan’s naked back, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care.

His dick is throbbing and he thinks about begging Dylan to touch him, but his head feels fuzzy and stringing words together feels impossible. 

Dylan gets him and is perfect, because he reaches down to stroke Connor’s dick, light enough that it’s still a bit of a tease, and Connor moans.

“Fuck, Dylan.” Connor might only be capable of saying Dylan’s name, which is embarrassing, but not enough to make him stop.

Dylan’s grip gets tighter, dragging just right over the head of Connor’s dick and when he pulls on a nipple to suck on, a bead of precome blurts out of it.

“Fuck me already,” Connor whines, abs tightening. 

Dylan pulls off of Connor’s nipple leisurely, dragging it with him until it slides out with a wet popping sound. “I’m gonna take it slow. Gonna make it special for you.” He blows over the nipple he just let go of and Connor groans at the feel of cold air, making it pebble up even more. 

“I’m gonna come before you can.”

Dylan laughs at him.

Connor pushes Dylan’s head away from his chest as much as he can. “I’m serious. We’ll make it special next time, come on.”

Dylan leaves one last nip to Connor’s chest and leans over to grab the lube, taking a detour to kiss Connor’s nose on the way. It’s sweet, shockingly so compared to the dirty seduction that Dylan was doing less than thirty seconds ago.

Connor kind of glazes over watching Dylan coat his fingers in lube, so he’s startled when Dylan asks, “You want to top?” 

He switches between looking at Dylan’s fingers, shining in the light of the lamp, and Dylan’s dick, hard and bobbing between his thighs. Connor wants to get his mouth on it, but he wants to feel it inside him more. At least for the first time. 

He shakes his head, so Dylan presses a finger in. His body doesn’t take long for him to open up, something that had either slightly annoyed or really pleased the Coyotes. Dylan doesn’t seem to care either way; he takes his time even though he doesn’t need to. 

Connor’s been wanting this all along, Dylan’s eyes watching him like there’s nothing else he wants to see for the rest of his life, but it’s weirdly more vulnerable with just the two of them. With everyone else he felt partially removed from everything, but now he’s almost too present. He can feel his heartbeat in every limb in his body and his arousal is destroying his ability to think.

Dylan pulls his fingers out of him and the drag of them against his skin makes Connor gasp. He slides on a condom which makes Connor furrow his eyebrows - they do regular screenings for a reason, including but not limited to the victory gangbangs - but Dylan is pushing in before he can say anything about it. 

Connor’s breath catches in his throat for a second and pushes out in one big sigh that Dylan leans down to soften with his mouth.

Dylan kisses him like he’s trying to distract him, but Connor doesn’t want to be distracted from any of it. He wants to remember every moment of the slick drag of Dylan’s dick in him, the way Dylan sucks Connor’s lip and runs his tongue over the plushest part of it in a slow, deliberate slide. 

Dylan shifts, pushing Connor’s left leg up and pressing it against the bed. Connor’s muscles slightly twinge at the stretch because he’s not a goalie, but the way it spreads him wider and changes the angle of Dylan’s next thrust is worth it.

“ _Fuck_.” It’s too good. Connor reaches up to wrap his arms around Dylan’s back, hands slipping on his tanned skin. He's squirming around too much, trying to get Dylan at every angle he can and Dylan bites at his shoulder in rebuke, holding Connor tighter to keep him where he wants. Connor buries his face in Dylan’s neck, sucks wet, messy kisses against his skin to keep himself still so Dylan can get a steady rhythm going. That's all Connor needs at this point; he’s already so turned on he can't speak. 

Or he might be saying something, but the odds that it's something other than Dylan’s name are low. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Connor hears Dylan curse. His hips don't lose their rhythm, but he reaches for Connor’s cock almost desperately, jerking him off and rubbing Connor’s precome around the head with a sharp flick of his thumb. 

Connor comes, fingers gripping into the meat of Dylan’s shoulders and Dylan makes a relieved noise against Connor’s neck before shoving his cock in deep and riding out his own orgasm. 

They breathe into each other’s sweaty skin for a while, unable to lift their heads for a while. Connor could go to sleep just like this. He's still warm and Dylan’s body over his prevents his sweat from cooling into ice. He runs his fingers down Dylan's back, dipping in the curve of his spine and rubbing circles there. 

Dylan barely shifts, but he taps his fingers against Connor’s thigh where he still has it gripped solidly in his palm. 

They'll move eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s stupid, but seeing Mitch’s name flash across his screen still gives him a bit of anxiety. Dylan’s here though, head resting on Connor’s stomach, fidgeting around as he plays with the Game Boy Color he’s had since he was five. 
> 
> Connor runs his hand through Dylan’s hair as he picks up. “Hey—”
> 
> “Davo,” Mitch interrupts, voice cracking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a little bonus scene that I had hinted at in my end note when I first wrote this fic and thegr819 left a super nice comment asking me to add it to this story so here it finally is! Short and sweet, but we all need some Mitch redemption

It’s stupid, but seeing Mitch’s name flash across his screen still gives him a bit of anxiety. Dylan’s here though, head resting on Connor’s stomach, fidgeting around as he plays with the Game Boy Color he’s had since he was five. 

Connor runs his hand through Dylan’s hair as he picks up. “Hey—”

“Davo,” Mitch interrupts, voice cracking. 

Connor sits up quickly, jostling Dylan out of his lap. He waves an absent-minded hand at Dylan in apology, but he’s stuck on how Mitch sounds so _broken_. “Marns—Mitch. Mitchy, what’s wrong?”

He vaguely registers Dylan pushing in close, mouth a tense, worried line. 

Mitch breathes into the receiver shakily without answering for long enough that Dylan takes the phone out of Connor’s hand and puts it on speaker between them. 

“Marns,” Dylan says, soft like the way he twines his hand together with Connor’s. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Wanna tell us what’s going on?”

Connor wishes they were all in Toronto right now, squished together on the couch in Dylan’s basement. Mitch has always felt things so strongly; it’s what’s made him a great friend and passionate hockey player, but it’s times like this, when his heart is too big for his own good that Connor wishes he could do more for him. 

Mitch swallows wetly, like his tongue is too big for his mouth, and says, “Davo, I’m so sorry. I—I’m the worst friend ever.”

When Connor looks over, Dylan looks just as confused as Connor feels. “Wha—Mitch that’s crazy. You’re my best friend.”

“But I—I _picked sides_. I didn’t even—I didn’t know I was doing it. I just. I wasn’t listening to you and made everything worse and I…” Mitch’s words get more frantic the longer he talks and Connor feels like he’s missing the point until Mitch whispers, “I made you cry, Davo.”

And it’s—Connor remembers feeling like he was falling apart in the middle of a Subway in a random mall in Alberta, Mitch telling him everything he knew, but had been ignoring. The words _that was fucking pathetic_ stick out in his mind like a beacon and there’s still a part of him that believes them. 

Dylan squeezes his hand, grounding him back into the moment. He’s just here, in Dylan’s room, a place so familiar that the sounds of Dylan’s brothers bickering downstairs is more relaxing than stressful. 

Connor takes in a deep breath and focuses on the feeling of Dylan’s thumb rubbing across the back of his hand. He can still hear Mitch’s staggered breathing as he waits for Connor to say something. 

“Mitchy,” he starts, “you weren’t… I needed to hear what you were saying.”

“But—”

“No, you were right,” he says, and even though it’s awkward to say, he feels his conviction rise with each word. “I was being stupid. I watched too many romcoms or something as a kid, I dunno what I was doing, but some elaborate stupid plot to win Dylan over wasn’t right.”

“I didn’t think that’s what you were doing!” Mitch yells, like he’s scared he won’t be able to explain it all unless everything rushes out of his mouth at once. “I thought you were being, I don’t know, mean on purpose, but it’s you—I shouldn’t have—I don’t know what I was thinking. Stromer’s an idiot anyway. I don’t know why I believed him.”

Connor feels himself smile and it only widens into a grin when Dylan shoves him for it. 

“I don’t think any of us knew what we were doing,” Connor admits. “I sure didn’t.” Mitch huffs out a laugh, but it doesn’t sound near enough like normal. “Without you I wouldn’t have gotten my shit together. Probably would’ve still been making super inappropriate snapchats, you know?”

Mitch sobs out a laugh. “Yeah, I know.”

“You’re one of my best friends, Mitch. Loyal and obnoxious and always trying to do the right thing and we wouldn’t be friends if that wasn’t who you were.” Connor can see Dylan grinning at him out of the corner of his eye and he ducks his head due to some weird form of shyness. “I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

“Ditto,” Dylan says. 

“Shut up Stromer you’re so dumb,” Mitch snarks, but it’s Mitch, and his voice is still a little wobbly, so it’s not like his words hold any weight behind the sass. 

“You’re the one that thought I was more right than Davo. Like, fuck, shouldn’t we both know better by now?”

“You should,” Conner interjects. “I never make mistakes. Ever.”

Dylan tackles him in response, which is fair, because Conner knows he’s full of bullshit, and when Mitch’s laugh rings through the phone, bright and clear, he thinks that’s what he was gunning for anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a bonus scene in here that wouldn't make itself fit where Mitch cusses Dylan out for his communication issues and frantically apologizes to Connor for being a bully. Mitch redemption. 
> 
> My [tumblr](https://fiveandnocents.tumblr.com/) is still young! I'm looking for people to follow and talk hockey with :)


End file.
